


Thanks, Gandalf

by crownlessliestheking



Category: The Hobbit-All Media Types
Genre: Abandoned Fic, Body Swap Humor, Hiatus, Multi, Post!BotFA, crackfic, everyone is alive AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 05:58:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3680553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/crownlessliestheking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin is going to murder that blasted, meddling wizard.<br/>Thranduil is going to try and get there first.<br/>Gandalf will never be able to look either of them in the eye again, not after this.</p><p>Discontinued.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And so it Begins

From a prompt given to me by the lovely lunarlumina: in which Thorin and Thranduil switch bodies, courtesy of Gandalf. My first crackfic in around four years, and I am going to thoroughly enjoy writing this-I can only hope that' youll enjoy reading it ^_^

* * *

 

 

Chapter 1

A universal sigh echoed through the negotiations tent, hastily erected for the lack of a more suitable place, but luckily sturdy enough to withstand the immense egos and pride of two of the kings therein. Gandalf glanced around, noting the expressions of sheer frustration worn on the faces of those in the tent; Bard, looking ill at ease with the weight of his new crown, appeared to be trying to stave off an oncoming migraine; Bilbo looked as if he would soon explode into either a fit of enraged yelling or a lecture on manners and decorum (both of which Gandalf felt were sorely needed); Balin seemed pained by the bickering, but long resigned to it; the Elvenking’s young son donned an expression that flickered between utter boredom and irritation.

And the two responsible for this constant irritation-well, that was another story entirely. Thorin Oakenshield had not yet healed from his battle wounds-grievous things, truly, and he’d only been saved by Bilbo’s rather surprising friendship with the Elvenking-but his sheer stubbornness remained unchanged. He was currently cursing the other ruler out, using obscenities that not all in the room understood, but the angry tone and gestures were certainly enough to make the intent behind them clear. Gandalf was quite sure that this was language such that a king should never use, especially in front of another monarch, though the other monarch was not entirely blameless in this ridiculousness.

He leveled a glare at Thranduil, meeting the Elvenking’s eyes as they narrowed briefly in amusement, a smirk playing at his lips as he sipped his wine, content to let the King Under the Mountain scream his heart out before retorting in rapid-fire Sindarin, which, of course, would only serve to make Thorin angrier, as the last few hours had proven.

“So, the gold that was promised to us,” Bard turned to Balin, making the wise decision to ignore the shouted profanities bouncing across the two ends of the table. “When will it be delivered? My people are not starving yet, but we have nowhere to go. Dale must be rebuilt.”

“We have begun sorting out the treasury,” Balin explained, the normally quiet Dwarrow raising his voice to be heard over the yelling. “It will take some time to divide up the treasure properly, make sure all is accounted for, but you shall have your payment by winter’s end, as promised.”

“That does not help rebuild Dale. We cannot withstand the winter without proper shelter,” Bard gritted his teeth at a particularly loud exclamation.

“More and more Dwarrows are flowing into Erebor. Surely something can be arranged, along the lines of they rebuild, and we give you the gold to pay them as soon as possible? I do believe it is within my King’s authority to issue an order as such,” Balin offered.

“Then we have a tentative agreement.”

“It will be made official as soon as we can establish some form of peace between the two of them,” Balin promised with a grimace.

“Then he will be waiting until him and his great-grandchildren die,” Bilbo snapped, shooting a rather impressive glare at the two. “This idiocy has gone on long enough, can’t one of you _do_ something?”

Gandalf stood, his frame creaking slightly; he had not entirely healed from his ordeal at Dol Guldur either, and the constant arguing was doing nothing for his health.

“Enough!” he punctuated his cry with a flash of light from his staff, his voice growing loud and terrible. “I declare these negotiations over for today. Balin, Bard, Legolas, Bilbo, you may go. Your Majesties, do stay here, I believe that we must reach some sort of peace so this ends in a timely manner.”

Thorin looked mutinously angry, while Thranduil simply regarded him with a quirked eyebrow, tilting his head to the side. The other four quickly scurried from the tent, relief evident on their faces as Gandalf pulled the flap down after them.

“You must learn to get along,” Gandalf returned to stand near his seat with a huff.

“You propose that I become comrades,” the Dwarrow, confound him, spat the word out as if it were poison, “with this faithless, indolent creature? I would rather the Mountain razed and plundered!”

“That can be arranged, though I doubt you’ve the intelligence to do so,” Thranduil cut in smoothly, arrogance oozing out of his very pores.

“And I have a very different arrangement,” Gandalf was quick to cut off what was surely another rant in the making. He closed his eyes, concentrating deeply, summoning his power from the very core of his being. The torches in the tent flickered, dimming greatly before flaring up, and the shadows lengthened; a fell chant could be heard as if through water, echoing softly, full of rounded syllables in a language known not to mortals.

Gandalf opened his eyes, the power blazing forth out of him in an outpouring of bright white light, as he intoned the words that would work-that _had_ to work.

The light grew ever brighter as he fed more energy into the spell, the kings’ shocked faces a sight he privately treasured before the glow consumed them in one last flash before fading out completely.

“It is done,” Gandalf rasped out, leaning heavily on his staff, which thrummed beneath his wizened hands and was hot to the touch. “It is done.”

He watched the two, now slumped over on the table, unmoving, and waited for them to stir. Thranduil was the first to wake, whirling to face Gandalf with accusation evident in intense sapphire eyes, before grasping his side with a wordless exclamation of pain.

“Why does my side hurt so much, wizard?” he spat, before his eyes widened in shock as he looked at unfamiliar hands. “And why am I so bloody _short_?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin reacts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the awesome comments and kudos <3

Thorin II Oakenshield was not often confused. Nor did he make a habit of desperately wishing that current events were simply a nightmare. Today, both of those trends were completely, utterly contradicted.

After the wizard’s flash of light nearly blinding him, as if he needed more injury atop cracked ribs and a gaping slash in his side that had punctured a lung and nearly gutted him, things only got better. His first thought when he awoke to no pain was that unconsciousness was a better painkiller than he’d ever thought possible.

“And why am I so bloody _short_?” punctured the silence, and the brief moments of peace. Because that was _his_ voice, only he wasn’t talking, and Thorin was extremely certain that Oín would not dare to give him any concoction with side effects that fooled and corrupted the mind. That was where the confusion came in, though he preferred to describe it as a very acute feeling of ‘what the fuck is going on here?’.

“I’m not short,” he replied on sheer reflex, vitriol leaking from his lips as he shot a glare at-Oh Mahal.  He was glaring at himself (was he really _that_ short? No of course not, he towered over some Dwarrows), and bizarrely, he wasn’t speaking in his own voice. No, this was a smooth baritone, haughty and arrogant and _Mahal please let this not be what I think it is_ , he thought desperately to himself, even as he glanced down, only to have long, platinum hair cascade into his face.

He'd just become King Under the Mountain he had been trying to get back to for nearly 60 years, and now he was going to have to go live in the  _forest_? With  _trees_ and no meat and no metal? This had to be a fucking joke. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Thorin stated, his voice breaking. “Why am I in the Elvish filth’s body?”

“I’ll thank you not to taint my tongue with foul words like that, Dwarrow,” Thorin’s body-because Mahal knows he’s not accepting that _Thranduil, the fucking ponce of an elf_ , is currently occupying his glorious body-snarls at him.

“I’ll thank you not to speak against my height, you’re practically a bloody tree,” Thorin spat back, swaying slightly as he attempted to stand up-how did elves do it with these blasted long legs? He was practically all leg now, though that did explain why the so-called Elvenking was such an idiot. All legs and no brain.

“At least trees can see above ants,” Thranduil-in-Thorin’s body ( _Mahal why is this happening to me why can’t it just for once be a dream?_ ) sneered. “If one came along, in this pathetic excuse for a body, I’d be unable to see for hours until it passed!”

“At least I’m not likely to fall over my own absurdly long legs, though that does explain the brain damage, come to think of it,” Thorin growled, deciding to remain seated.

“Please, I’ve never fallen a day in my life,” Thranduil-in-Thorin’s body smirked, finally crossing his arms after several attempts. “Though you must have, with naught but these stubby little arms to catch yourself.”

That was the last straw, the absolute last straw. If Thorin was going to be stuck in this hideous, beardless body, the least he could do was make sure Thranduil’s vanity suffered greatly for it.

“Well time for you to experience it,” he roared, standing up to his full (dizzying) height and smirking at himself (this shit better be reversible) before calmly toppling face first into the hard-packed dirt of the tent.

Fuck. That hurt more than expected, he scowled, spitting out mud and running Thranduil’s tongue over Thranduil’s teeth, which were unfortunately intact. Not his, nope. Denial was the only thing protecting his sanity.

Though the sheer agony on Thranduil-in-Thorin’s face was absolutely worth the pain, and the bruise he’d doubtless have later.

“You’ll ruin my face, you idiot of a Dwarf,” Thranduil-in-Thorin wailed, and Thorin relished in his victory.

“Ach,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes, “Your face is so smooth and hairless the mud’s an improvement. Looks like you might be getting some stubble, at last, though even your Captain of the Guard has a better mustache.”

He had no idea if it were true or not, having only briefly met the she-elf, and not exactly in a situation to note her facial hair, or more likely lack thereof. Perhaps he could ask Kíli later, assuming that he could tear his sister-son away from her. That was a conversation he’d need to have, though perhaps he could use this new (shudder) body to get her away from him. There was a thought.

“She does not,” Thranduil-in-Thorin (this was really happening, wasn’t it?) finished, rather lamely, too, Thorin thought with not a little pride.

A loud crash from near the tent flap alerted them to the fact that Gandalf was attempting to make a quick escape.

“You!” they shouted in unison, and Thorin briefly registered that fact with disgust as he pulled himself off the floor, wobbly on the too-long legs and too-tall frame. At least Thranduil was no better off, he noted with a smirk, enjoying the difficulty he was having getting off the bed they’d brought in for him to negotiate on.

Gandalf froze, looking extremely guilty. He was definitely the one who did this to them, Thorin bared his teeth in a snarl. And by Mahal he was going to reverse the damn thing or else.

“AGH!” A yell of pain had him turning, and then cursing in Khuzdul, because _what in Mahal’s name was the damned elf doing_?

“I’m injured, you halfwit!” Thorin shouted.

“You just fell right on my face!” Thranduil-in-his-body shouted right back, his face twisted in a grimace of pain.

“I have cracked ribs and a punctured lung and my intestines were spilling out my side not two days ago! I think that’s worse than a wee bruise!”

“Elves don’t get bruises, you absolute twit!”

“Then what in the seven hells are you worried about?”

“You breaking my body!”

“My body’s already broken! You might kill me doing stupid shit like that!”

“Good!”

“ENOUGH!” Gandalf yelled, slamming his staff down once more, the torches flickering ominously. “If you die in that body, you die for good. This will reverse itself when you two learn to get along, but you’d best be quick about it, since after a month it becomes permanent.”

“Permanent?” Thranduil-in-Thorin’s body gasped, his voice embarrassingly high. “We’ll be stuck like this forever!”

Thorin thought he might start crying. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tis here!

Thranduil decided within five minutes of waking up in this hideous, scarred, lump of a body, that he needed wine. And lots of it. Lots and lots of wine, because that was really the only way he was going to be able to process this without committing homicide on a certain grinning wizard. He’d have to see about getting Mithrandir’s status as elf-friend revoked-he wasn’t entirely sure that was possible, or if there would be any paperwork involved, but this surely qualified as grounds to do something like that, and he would suffer through any paperwork gladly if it meant making the meddling wizard pay

Valar above, but he was disgusting. His fine cheekbones and delicate, carved features were replaced by a long nose and the rough rasp of a beard on his chin (a _beard_ , for Varda’s sake. Elves didn’t grow _beards_ ); his long legs replaced by little stubs like tree stumps where a tall pine once proudly stood; there was pain radiating off his side, his ribs and chest screaming in agony, and his vision was rather fuzzy in the daylight, his hearing muted considerably; the only remotely good thing about this body was the hair that cascaded in loose waves down his back, soft to the touch and streaked with silver.

That, of course, was a meager light in an infinite darkness, because the fact that he was _short_ overshadowed near everything else. Thranduil had no idea how Oakenshield had ever managed to impress anyone-his glower was the closest thing to intimidating about him, and that would fail to make even the most cowardly of creatures flinch. Though he certainly had a presence about him, a bearing that marked him as royalty (to Thranduil’s endless grief), the Elvenking knew that his own regality lay within his body. A body that was currently sporting hair in a woeful state of disarray, and most likely several bruises by now.

Though this one was far worse-honestly, what had that idiot of a Dwarf been _doing_ to get himself this injured? Privately, Thranduil took this as proof of his long-held belief that Elves were superior fighters.

“Wine,” Mithrandir-meddling, infuriating, wizard that he was-stated shortly, passing Thranduil a small cup, even as his body looked on with a lip curled down in utter disgust. He took a sip of the frankly disgusting watery swill-Laketown wine, he was sure of it, nowhere near the good stuff he had stashed away in his tent. Perhaps he’d get some-

Oh, wait. He was bloody _bedridden._

And a _bloody. Fucking. Dwarf._

And his cup was far too small, he realized, sneering at the wizard (he’d talk to Elrond again if it meant revoking Gandalf’s status as Elf-friend. No Elf-friend would trap him in the body of a Dwarf, that was for certain. He’d invent a new title, something like Elf-enemy. Elf’s Bane.)

“Give me the bottle, wizard,” he commanded coldly. At least his voice was deeper, which was a plus for the intimidation factor. The height thing still detracted said factor beyond hope of ever raising it, though.

“I’m still healing!” Oakenshield chose just this moment to protest, and Thranduil mourned the passing of the blessed silence.

“Yes well my mental wounds will linger longer than your physical ones.” He toasted the silence’s death with a draught straight from the bottle. Absolutely disgusting.

“I was unaware that your mental state could be any more damaged,” Oakenshield glared. The glower was so awkward on his face.

“At least I don’t glower like I’m constipated,” Thranduil smirked. He’d hit that prideful idiot prancing around in his body where it hurt the most.

“At least my brain hasn’t been pickled from the alcohol I consume.” That was good, Thranduil could admit grudgingly. But the comeback ready to be sent lashing from his tongue would be better. It would be legendary.

“At least my mother-,”

“Enough, before I do something else to the both of you,” Mithrandir interrupted, a scowl twisting his face. The bloody wizard was siding with the Dwarf! This was treachery of the highest order.

“I do think you’ve done enough already,” Thranduil replied loftily. “Now what we must discuss is how we are going to get this spell off.”

“I told you,” was that wizard _rolling his eyes at him_ , “that the only way is for you two to learn how to get along. You are both kings, not headless chickens squabbling over a piece of corn, and you must learn to act as such.”

“Technically, I am the only king here,” Thranduil interjected, unable to help himself. The disconcerting fact that it was his face contorted into a mask of fury was mitigated by the knowledge of the discomfort he was bringing Oakenshield.

“Why you-,”

“Thorin, be silent for once in your life!” At least Mithrandir looked utterly irritated. Served him right, getting them into this mess in the first place. Thranduil was trying not to think of the fact that they would be stuck like this forever. That he would never be tall again. That he would never be able to walk among the trees, and would instead be stuck in a bloody mountain surrounded by gold and jewels that stank of dragon.

Well, perhaps he could clear the stink out. The White Gems were there, after all, he reminded himself.

(And maybe the Bowman would appreciate a pretty trinket or two. He’d certainly look regal in silver).

“Well,” Thranduil said, standing up and ignoring the flash of pain that seared through his side. It wasn’t that bad, really-he’d suffered far worse. He eyed his body, ensuring that the glamour that hid his scars remained in place. The wound had almost blinded him, he shuddered, and even now the vision in that eye sometimes faded in and out. He could only hope that Oakenshield never learned of that particular weakness, though it was perhaps too much for him to hope for.

“Well? Surely you don’t mean to go out like that,” Oakenshield looked at him, puzzlement and irritation clear in his own eyes. The open show of emotions in his face was disconcerting; mirrors always showed him an ivory mask, imperturbable, unshakeable. This…feeling…that Oakenshield displayed so easily with his eyes, was intense, piercing Thranduil and inexplicably making him feel inferior in his Dwarven body.

Don’t think about it, Thranduil, he reminded himself. That can only lead to insanity, and this body has already been subject to one mad inhabitant, it doesn’t need another.

“Oh, but I do,” Thranduil smirked, raising his ridiculously thick eyebrows. He was going to take a thin knife to them later, pare them down to something less like furry caterpillars. He simply walked out of the tent-the Elvenking, though he wasn’t Eldar anymore, did not have to deal with all this horseshit.

And promptly ran into one Bilbo Baggins.

“O-oh, hello, Your Majesty. I didn’t think you could walk just yet. I’ll, um, just,” the Halfling wrung his hands, large eyes flickering about in distress. Oh, right, the Arkenstone. Thranduil felt cold fury rise within his breast as he remembered how Oakenshield had hurt this creature-who had remained loyal to him even after nearly being killed.

“Peace, Master Baggins,” Thranduil attempted a comforting smile, though from the look on the Hobbit’s face, it must have come out as more of a grimace. He rolled his eyes internally; his own body could manage a smile, especially when in the presence of his son. How he missed his face….

“The blast Dwa-I mean, _I_ ,” oh how it hurt Thranduil to say those words, “forgive you completely. Your logic was impeccable and you acted with my best intentions in mind. The great and generous Elvenking has promised to give the Arkenstone back, so all is well.”

“Great…and generous?” Bilbo Baggins narrowed his eyes, leaning close to peer into Thranduil’s face. He wanted to shield the poor Hobbit’s eyes from its ugliness, he really did. “Are you feeling quite alright, Thorin?”

“That’s not my name,” Thranduil snapped out, his lips turning down in a sneer. And then falling open as he realized exactly what he had just done. Oh, that was absolutely no good.

“You..what?” Thranduil honestly could not blame the Halfling for looking so confused. He was living the damn thing and couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Perhaps more wine would help, if he could get his hands on it.

“I-,” he started, scrambling to come up with some lie. Then again, maybe he’d had too much already; his thoughts were viscous with panic where they were usually lightning-quick.

“You’re…not Thorin, are you?” The Halfling asked quietly-and damn him, he really was too clever for his own good. It did explain how he had managed to survive for almost a month undetected in his palace, though.

“No. The wizard, he cast a spell,” Thranduil began hesitantly, unsure of how much Mithrandir would want him telling the Hobbit. When he realized that he was catering to the wizard, though, a vindictive voice urged him to just blurt the whole truth out. “I am Thranduil Oropherion, Elvenking of the Greenwood.”

And then Bilbo Baggins did what Thranduil himself would have done, had he been a weaker creature: He fainted.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin, once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been forever. I am so, so sorry.

Thorin was so done with everything.

He hated elves, he hated this body, he hated Thranduil’s bloody curtain of hair-who needed unbraided hair that long? Nobody, that was who. Absolutely nobody.

He stalked into Thranduil’s tent, pointedly ignoring every single elf that bowed and scraped at his feet along the way-Thorin found that he did like that bit of it, if he was quite honest, though he could see it getting annoying, considering he had no idea what any of them were saying to him.

Fucking Elves.

“I do _not_ wish to be disturbed,” he whirled around to glare at the throng clamoring for his attention in the nonsensical whistles of the Elvish tongue-whimsical and completely unnatural.

Thorin let the tent flap shut behind him as he immediately headed for the table amply stocked with wine-Dorwinion, too, how about that? He could drink freely now, and this body could definitely take it, from what he was seeing. He wouldn’t be surprised to find that the Elvenking’s body was composed of 80% and 20% sheer arrogant asshole.

He almost felt bad for the Mirkwood Elves for having to put up with such a ruler. _Almost._

Thorin growled, low in his throat-his new Elven ears were far more perceptive than those of his normal body, and they could pick out several interesting conversations. One of them centering around the new wine (which he could now participate in, having sampled it), and at least two others discussing Dwarrows in no nice terms. He was going to absolutely murder those Elves, talking shit about the noblest race in Middle Earth.

Granted, they were not the tallest of creatures, but they were steadfast and loyal, brilliant and creative. The only fault he could find in his race is the gold sickness, and the very thought of it send a shudder of fear and disgust through his body.

Suddenly, the room seemed to glint and sparkle-all the precious trinkets Thranduil had laying around, gold and silver and studded with kingdoms’ worth of precious gems-Thorin could feel them calling to him, whispering a siren song, begging to be claimed and possessed.

Every. Ounce. Of. Gold.

He swallowed dryly, downing another goblet of the rich wine that soured immediately in his throat.

“It’s not real,” he muttered to himself, his voice unnaturally musical and fluting, his grip tightening around the goblet. Thorin Oakenshield needed a distraction, and he needed one now, but he’d be thrice struck down by Mahal himself if he was going to walk out there with all those blasted Elves.

Perhaps more wine would help. It certainly wouldn’t hurt him, though he was starting to understand why the pompous prick drank so much in the first place-if he had to deal with all these bloody Elves every single day, he’d have died of alcohol poisoning before his coming of age.

Then again, he wouldn’t have had to suffer through this entire mess, so he supposed that such a fate could not have been that bad. Certainly preferable to being so bloody tall, more likely to trip over his own legs and break his neck than die honorably in battle like any Dwarrow should-though such a death would certainly be more suited to an elf.

He sank into the featherbed that sat near the middle of the tent, strewn generously with cushions-ridiculously soft and luxurious; he was certain that this is what the burglar had forever been grousing about missing. Thorin certainly did not plan on admitting that if this was Master Baggins’ bed, then he certainly had a right to complain about the hard ground on the road.

He’d commission one of these for Erebor as soon as possible. Well, perhaps two-after all, it wasn’t as if they’d be sharing a bed, right? Thorin sighed, berating himself for being so utterly ridiculous. Of course they wouldn’t-he’d be lucky if the Halfling ever spoke to him again, let alone looked at him without a trace of fear in his eyes. Thorin feared that he’d lost his goodwill forever, and the thought stung more than he’d have liked.

“I wonder how the Halfling is,” he murmured to himself, letting his eyes drift lazily shut. “Perhaps I’ll pay him a visit soon, even in this repugnant body.” Thorin didn’t voice the thought that the Halfling might prefer him in Thranduil's body-he and the Elvenking had struck up a rather unlikely friendship, after all. And Thranduil, faithless Elf that he was, had never actually harmed the Hobbit, let alone dangled him several hundred feet in the air and threatened to kill him. He'd fucked everything up rather immensely, and in the worst way possible, too. What good was a kingdom if that was how he'd gained it?

"My lord, the Bowman is here to see you," a lilting, quiet voice broke through his reverie in the Common Tongue-thank Mahal, Thorin thought to himself, seeing as he didn't speak a word of the singsong prattle the Elves called a language. Though this begged the question of why, exactly, Bard the Bowman, future Lord of Dale, was here to see Thranduil the Elvenking at what was basically an ungodly hour. Weren't most Elves nocturnal? It's not as if any sunlight actually got into the Mirkwood, and it would absolutely suck if they weren't, seeing as how Thorin had taken so much pride in holding his meetings during the middle of the day to make Thranduil more uncomfortable. Clearly, he'd have to resort to a different tactic.

"Let him in." He kept his tone cool and imperious, just like Thranduil's normal voice. If he could fool a few Elves, he could definitely fool a human. 

"My lord," Bard entered, looking suspiciously clean. Thorin surreptitiously sniffed the air-and smelling rather clean, too, the day's grime meticulously washed off, and the scent replaced with something spicy. Slightly overpowering and a bit fruity, too, if Thorin was to be quite honest, but not entirely unpleasant. Not quite masculine, either, but neither was Bard's paltry beard. Still, it was markedly better than the bare chins of the Elves-no, there was only one that wore a bare chin well, and that was Bilbo Baggins. Not to say that he found the Halfling attractive. 

Nothing like that. Just, he would have looked quite strange with a beard, that was all.

"Bowman," Thorin inclined his head in greeting, something in his gut twisting at how Bard let the flap of the tent swing shut behind him as he sashayed-bloody fucking  _sashayed-_ to the bed, sitting uncomfortably close to Thorin. Right, well that wasn't awkward in the least. 

"Are we not on a first name basis?" Bard raised an eyebrow, a-dear Mahal, was that a teasing smirk on his face?

"Well-," Thorin fumbled for words, subtly moving away from the Man.

"No matter, my lord, I'll have you screaming it tonight," he chuckled, winking lasciviously. Oh no. Oh fuck no. Oh Mahal fucking no.

Thorin finally understood why the Lord of Dale and the Elvenking got along so well, and he most certainly could have done better without that knowledge. Not that two males were frowned upon in his own culture, it was just that it was Thranduil. And Bard. 

Honestly, he might have thrown up a little in his mouth at the thought. 

"Cat got your tongue, Thranduil?" Mahal's balls, he was purring the name. And crawling closer to Thorin. On all fours. With his shirt half undone, and something that looked an awful lot like a tent in his breeches. 

"I'M NOT THRANDUIL!" Thorin blurted out immediately, as soon as he saw Bard' lips puckering up into a kiss. 

"What." Thank Mahal, the man had frozen, though he was still straddling Thorin. 

"I'm. Not. Thranduil," he repeated, enunciating each word clearly. He'd not meant to tell anyone, but there was absolutely no way that he could let this go on. It would be horrific. Not even improper, just horrific. He didn't need to know or take part in any of the Elvenking's liasons for him, absolutely not. This was where he drew the line. 

"Is this a joke of some sort?" Bard looked extremely confused, though he did move off of Thorin, his pants seeming to have deflated. Well, at least it was slightly less awkward now, right?

"I fucking wish," Thorin muttered, followed by a few choice curses in Khuzdul. 

"Don't tell me you're-," Bard gasped in horror. Well, at least he was smarter than he looked.

"I am."

"Oh, fuck me." 

Thorin felt bad for the Bowman, he really did. This was definitely not the best way to find out that some meddling wizard had put a Dwarven king that wanted to kill you in the body of your butt buddy. 

"I'd really rather not."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil and Bilbo have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive :)

The Halfling took an irritatingly long time to recover, though Thranduil could, conceivably, understand that some of it was due to his own fault, having inadvertently knocked the poor creature’s skull against the ground several times as he attempted to carry him to the nearest empty tent.

  
Once that ordeal was done with, though, he spent the remainder of the time awaiting for Master Baggins’ awakening cursing dwarves, wizards, and the blasted wounds that idiot under the mountain had ended up essentially inflicting upon himself as he single-handedly fought Azog. Perhaps there was a sort of grudging admiration for that sort of bravery stirring deep within his heart, though Thranduil was loath to admit it. Gold madness or not, Oakenshield’s actions and slights against both his person and his realm were too numerous to forgive, were they not? Pride could not let him concede to even the slightest of understandings.

“Are you quite done?” the Halfling’s tone, possessed of the pleasant acerbity of one who has mastered the art of dealing with irksome persons, interrupted his reverie and brought Thranduil to the embarrassing revelation that he had, in fact, been muttering to himself.

“Master Baggins, I encourage you to moderate your tone,” he responded, the gravelly rumble of Oakenshield’s voice taking him by surprise again. Never mind that it failed to properly convey the nuances that most civilized races could understand.

“As I encouraged you to move towards a solution that did not include the Company dying at the wrong ends of Elvish blades?” Baggins raised simply raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“And as I listened to said advice,” Thranduil sniped back, before holding up a hand and heaving a sigh. Both would be more graceful gestures had he his own, beautiful body back, and he had a sinking feeling that it came off as clumsy and overly dramatic in this one. “I did not carry you here to argue with you, Bilbo Baggins. Rather, I meant to ignore any and every being that stepped in my path while I was trapped in this body, and yet I have…failed.” The last word was spoken through clenched teeth.

“Miserably so, might I add,” and was that cheer in the blasted hobbit’s voice? Thranduil narrowed his eyes in irritation; a glower, though normally not his ideal choice of expressing irritation, would certainly become this body. “No need to look at me like that, Your Majesty,” he added on hastily, clearly repressing a smile.

“However, since you are now aware of this predicament,” the king chose his words carefully, as ‘bloody disaster’ probably would not be the best choice, though certainly the most accurate, “I endeavor to ask for your assistance in this matter.”

“And how am I to assist you? Us hobbits have very little magic beyond going unnoticed,” a soft chuckle punctuated his sentence, and Thranduil let out a noncommittal noise at the referral to the Halfling’s successful jailbreak.

“You are friends with Mithrandir, are you not?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so. Though I must admit, this fool’s errand of a quest marked the first time I’d seen him since I was a fauntling-I’d no idea he was a wizard, you know. In the Shire, he’s mostly known for his fireworks. Though I’ve no doubt that my mother, bless her soul, knew precisely what he was and what he was capable of. She would have had none of this Arkenstone nonsense,” Baggins sighed wistfully, a sadness creeping into his eyes. Thranduil knew loss, too, and gave the hobbit what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Bilbo’s slow blink told him that the intent behind the gesture, at least, was appreciated.

“I suppose I’m maudlin, though,” he cleared his throat, sitting up straighter. “My point was, to be succinct, that I have no means of making Gandalf do anything. To be honest, I’ve a better chance at resurrecting Smaug and convincing him to change the two of you back to ah, normal.”

“Ah,” Thranduil managed, the syllable flush with disappointment. “Well, then.”

“Though I’m sure Gandalf would not have made this completely irreversible, now would he?” the hobbit leaned in closer, propping his chin on a hand.

“He did state that it would be reversed when we learned to get along, though it would be,” here Thranduil shuddered in pure disgust, “permanent after a month.”

“You’d best get on becoming friends. Or, at the very least being able to have a civil conversation lasting more than five minutes, I should think. I doubt Gandalf has very high expectations of the two of you.” The sympathetic smile offered by Baggins did absolutely nothing to make Thranduil feel better.

“Our realms can engage in peaceful relations without us being the best of friends,” Thranduil scowled. At least that expression ought to translate properly.

“Yes, but it certainly would help. Ease the tension between the two of you and all that?” Damn the Halfling, he sounded perfectly logical and perfectly pleasant, as if it were a mere suggestion rather than more of a roundabout command.

“How would I even go about becoming….friends,” he almost choked on the word, had to let out an undignified cough to get it out properly, “with Oakenshield?”

“Traditionally, friendships start with some common ground, a shared hobby or belief or interest,” Bilbo mused, a slight frown marring in features. “Though in your case I suppose there is too much bad blood, and too much blasted pride, in the way.”

“I would never stoop so low as to have something in common with that filth,” Thranduil sneered, repulsed by the very thought. “He is the worst kind of impulsive, reckless, unthinking fool to exist. Blinded by ideals and a dream, and so easily succumbing to gold-madness, unwilling to even consider the counsel of others or to apologize for his wrongs!”

“He is also a dedicated ruler who wishes the best for his people, and wishes to restore them to the glory they once held.” The Halfling was looking straight at him now, steel in his eyes and in the set of his jaw.

“Still you defend him, even after what he did to you?” While aware that it was clearly still a sore topic, he couldn’t help but ask. Certainly, it appeared that the hobbit had forgiven Oakenshield, but the question of why still stood.

“Yes. And I’d thank you to return to the topic at hand, Your Majesty.”

A line of questioning for another day, then. It took everything Thranduil had not to wince at the bite in those last two words; the sheer level of disrespect was mind-boggling, but he could accept that he’d brought it upon himself.

“How am I to forge a friendship based on that?” he obliged, and Baggins’ face immediately softened.

“I don’t think Gandalf expects a traditional sort of friendship. More of a mutual understanding, one that keep arguments that could lead to war at a minimum. Preferably zero, to be quite honest. Though that’s just my take on it, you’d have to ask him to be sure,” he shrugged, tucking a stray curl behind a pointed ear.

In all honesty, Thranduil had absolutely no desire to seek out the wizard until the coming of the next age. Not that the Valar appeared to have any interest in his desires-he’d be seeing the wizard regardless of the emotions either party had about it. This needed to be reversed, and as soon as possible; he couldn’t let his realm suffer from the ineptitude of Oakenshield’s leadership, and he had no desire to rule over a bunch of squabbling dwarves living in a giant rock only recently vacated by a dragon.

“Though as an aside on understanding, I would suggest you get to know Thorin a bit better, perhaps by speaking to those who know him best.”

“Am I not already speaking to one of them?” Thranduil replied, raising an eyebrow-more of a furry caterpillar nesting above his eyes, if he’s quite honest, though he’s certainly not up to thinking about all that hair right now.

“Well, yes, but I’ve only known him for so long, you see. Balin and Dwalin, and his nephews, they’ve known him for far longer and could probably provide more insight. Certainly, you should at least inform Balin of these ah, circumstances. He’d be able to help you keep up the act in front of the rest of the dwarves, at the very least,” the hobbit ended with a sunny smile and a jaunty wave before hopping to his feet. “I’d best be going now, certainly it’d fuel an entire village’s worth of rumors if we were seen leaving the tent together, after you carrying me in.”

Baggins vanished under the canvas flap, and Thranduil sank to the ground with a sigh, rubbing the heels of his hands-grimy, of course-into his eyes. Bloody hell, this was going to be an ordeal, but at least he had one ally in this mess. Potentially two, if what Baggins had said about Balin were true.

Though, there was still something that niggled at him, something quite important he probably should have asked Bilbo about-

“Which one is Balin, again?”


End file.
